Seven Minutes in Heaven
by EllieLover
Summary: University AU- What happens when the lovestruck Sherlock Holmes gets locked in a closet with the oblivious John Watson in a game of seven minutes in heaven? A Johnlock fic!
1. Chapter 1

"A scarf?"

John Watson was being forced to play seven minutes in heaven; a game he didn't want to play, at a party he didn't want to be at, surrounded by people he didn't want to be surrounded by. There were university students chugging down unfamiliar alcohol mixtures, potheads smoking in the corner with little concerns for the rest of the room, and the rare antisocial person dotted about as they hid from the festivities as best they could.

The party was just beginning to fizzle out (to John's relief), when some idiot from one clique or another bravely suggested seven minutes in heaven, to which (to John's horror) the entire group wholeheartedly accepted. People began to randomly select items from about the vicinity, soon thereafter grabbing random _people _once the bag was bursting to the brim with objects. Without much of a say in the matter, John had been forced out of his comfortable spot between Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper on one of the cushy sofas and pushed to the front of the room to play, finding his hand forced into a cacophony of odd shapes and textures.

Watching the selected victim with extreme (yet highly secretive) attentiveness from across the room was one of the socially awkward party goers by the name of Sherlock Holmes, a slightly nervous feeling churning in his stomach. This wasn't the first time he'd watched John, oh no. The very first time had to be a good few months ago, when everyone was abuzz with a new rugby player that had won their school their first game in years. Normally, the moody teenager wouldn't give a second thought about some neanderthal sports player, but something about this one peaked his curiosity for one reason or another. Since then, he'd become quite familiar with the rugged man, noticing many mannerisms and quirks that most people would have overlooked without a second thought.

For example, John Watson was raised by an army man, given away by the extreme respect he gave authoritative figures and his unusually good posture for a young adult. He also possessed a strangely old mind for someone of his age, suggesting past struggles that made him sadder yet wiser. And the strangest habit of all, he tended to limp a bit, suggesting a psychosomatic injury from childhood.

Some might call this stalking. Others, such as himself, would consider it observing to ease the boredom.

Sherlock was snapped out of his thoughts when John pulled out a navy blue scarf with a faint smell of cigarette smoke and frayed edges. A scarf that, so happened, belong to _him._

_How the bloody hell did they get his scarf?_

"A scarf? Who's this scarf belong to?"

The crowd began to titter to one another, trying to pinpoint who was going in the closet with John Watson, rugby player extraordinaire. Sherlock swallowed back a slight tither of nerves in his throat, forcing himself to stand slowly. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Everyone fell silent, eyes falling on him with mixed emotions; disgust, pity, horror, confusion. John, on the other hand, looked a touch sick, but didn't back out as expected. Instead, he beckoned Sherlock towards the closet, avoiding everyone's eyes as he went.

John was nervous. His heart was pounding, his knees were weak, and his palms were damp. There was no reason for him to be nervous, it was only a stupid game in a stupid closet with a st….a person.

Sherlock Holmes was terrified. He hardly interacted with other people, and the fact that he was now expected to have relations with the one person he actually found interesting made him very uneasy.

The crowd jaunted at them, a few lightly shoving them closer together with cackles. One large boy tripped Sherlock when he wasn't looking, causing the gangly boy to trip into John, tumbling into the closet in a ball of legs and arms. The door slammed shut behind them, with the faint _click _of a lock as they were trapped inside the close quarters.

Sherlock sat up quickly, detaching himself from John and scooting himself to the other side of the closet. The other boy grunted loudly, glancing over at the other human in the closet with him. With an awkward cough, he spoke, reaching a hand out.

"So erm…hi?"


	2. Chapter 2

"So…erm…hi?"

Sherlock kept his eyes intensely trained on the extended hand, breathing shallowly as he quickly examined his options. Taking his hand and rising from the grimy corner of the closet seemed like the most obvious one, but also the most dangerous. The situation could not be controlled at that plane, if anything were to go horribly wrong. He could remain sitting in the corner for seven minutes and deal with the awkward silence as was custom in relation to Sherlock Holmes. But the problem with that was there was a not so small part of him that demanded to grasp the first option, to take John Watson's hand into his own, rise to his feet, and kiss the person across from him.

The only thing was, Sherlock was very afraid.

After several moments had passed without implication of anything happening, John's lips puckered slightly in thought, shrugging before he sat himself down in front of the strange boy refusing to move from the corner. He adjusted himself slightly before meeting Sherlock's slightly startled gaze. John had sat down. _Why had John sat down?_

"So." John cleared his throat carefully, bringing the attention back to the situation at hand. "I'm John Watson. You probably don't really know me or anything-"

"I do."

"What?"

"I know who you are."

John blinked, tipping his head in slight curiosity. This boy knew who he was? How strange. He wasn't particularly unique or anything, there was nothing specifically that set him apart from any other normal bloke that went to their university. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, taking deep, calming breaths to settle himself. The situation was extremely awkward, that much was certain, but neither boy knew how to respond without making it worse.

"How?"

"Sorry?"

"How do you know who I am?"

"Because you're interesting."

"I'm interesting?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, wrapping his long arms around his knees tightly. This wasn't supposed to happen. John wasn't supposed to care. He was supposed to laugh bitterly at him, efficiently breaking the heart that had been accidentally bestowed upon him, causing Sherlock to retreat and permanently give up on having a romantic life forever.

"How?"

"You're not like everyone else. You're different. You're intelligent, but not cocky, which is desirable in a person to begin with. You're the school's star rugby player, although unlike most, you're not a loud obnoxious beast that can't think for yourself. You grew up with military influence, suggested by your nearly perfect posture and extreme obedience for authoritative figures. You yourself strive to be a leader, being taught at a young age that being a leader was the ultimate path to success. Hence your fantastic athletic success. You were also abused as a child, however, thus you limp."

John stared, wide eyed and confused, utterly baffled by the amount of knowledge this boy had. He had never even spoken to him before!

"Am I that easy to read?"

"Oh, no. You were actually a bit of a challenge, here and there. Refreshing, really."

"Right."

They sat in silence for a little while longer before John cleared his throat again.

"Well, tell me about yourself, then."


	3. Chapter 3

"What do you want to know?"

Sherlock inched out from the corner he had huddled himself in slowly, causing John to back up a bit to allow him more space. They were facing each other now, on completely equal playing grounds. John tilted his head in thought, watching the stunning boy sitting across from him. He really _was_ stunning, wasn't he? A firm jaw line, wild curly hair that framed perfectly shaped blue-green eyes, cupid bow lips that looked perfect for kissing…

Jesus, he needed to stop.

"Uhm...tell me about why you're here." He muttered, hoping it would be too dark for Sherlock to notice his faint blush.

"I'm in this closet with you because my scarf was stolen and entered into the game."

"No, no. Not in the closet. Here, at University."

"Oh."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows delicately in thought, drawing John's attention back to his features. There was something so peculiar about his appearance; he was tall and gangly, but looked as if he was able to lift something twice his size. His facial features were soft, but at the same time they felt harsh, blending together smoothly. It was one of those faces you couldn't stop looking at, no matter how badly you wanted to look away. He snapped back to his senses just as Sherlock began to speak.

"Well, I'm here because I was invited by the University. I skipped several grades, so, naturally, I'm younger than most of the people attending. My parent's, more specifically my mother, wanted to keep me home until I was about the same age as the other students. However, after a bit of persuading, I managed to get myself here. At first I wasn't sure if it was going to be any different from my previous schooling, and after about three months, I decided it wasn't different at all."

"Really?"

John interrupted suddenly, eyebrows arched in confusion at Sherlock's statement. The younger boy was taken aback at the outburst, giving a tiny huff of indignance.

"Well, obviously. Didn't you think so?"

"Not at all."

"Really now. Please explain."

"Well, when you're younger you don't have much freedom. You're kind of...locked up, in a way."

John started hesitantly, choosing his words carefully. His hands began to follow his words as he spoke, animated his thought process.

"Held on a leash, I suppose. You're not big enough or strong enough to fend on your own, so your parents take care of you until you can take care of yourself. Usually it's a weaning process; they start with letting you brush your own teeth, comb your own hair, dress yourself. Then you can leave the house for a few hours, without them. Before you know it, you're a teenager with more responsibility than you've ever had, but you're not old enough to make big decisions yet. The grown-ups tell you you're too young for some things, but too old for others. You're in this catch twenty-two, for years. You want to kiss people, but you're not supposed to want to go to far. You want to befriend people, but best friends are childish. You want to watch movies, but some are too kiddish and some are too old. Then you grow up. You can kiss and befriend and watch whatever the hell you want and eat a shit ton of junk and no one can tell you you can't because _you're an adult now."_

John was speaking freely now, letting his words roll without a second thought to what being uttered from his mouth.

"But...no one can tell you you can't. For example, my father taught me growing up that being gay was absolutely horrible. But...he's not here to tell me I can't kiss you."


	4. Chapter 4

Whatever Sherlock was expecting, he could say with absolute assurance it certainly was not that. The room fell utterly silent after John's declaration, and their time was ticking away slowly, painfully noticeable. Muffled noises of people outside drew the attention of the Holmes boy away from this very awkward situation, momentarily focused instead on the sounds of other couples being hoarded into other closets. Girls were giggling, boys were hooting. It was certainly a university party out there.

Then, quite suddenly, it dawned on him.

They were completely forgotten. No one was going to come get them.

He looked to John nervously, biting his cheek out of nervous habit. He really needed to break that damned habit. The small space suddenly seemed to get smaller, hotter, more intimate, as it became clear to the other boy that they would be in here much longer than seven minutes. It didn't appear to be affecting him much at all, which arose some curiosity. John backed away a bit, sensing a bit of discomfort.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

John was being very forward, and he knew that, but there was seemingly nothing else he could think to do except come right out and ask. The minutes were dragging on, and this was just getting strange. They could either enjoy themselves a little, or leave, and John was hoping to go with the former. Sherlock blinked once, twice, three times before giving a slow nod, swallowing thickly. Alright. That was a good sign.

"Except."

Except? There was an except to this?

"Except what?"

"I don't really know how to kiss."

John gave a soft frown, moving in a little, watching a warm blush blossom across Sherlock's cheeks. He was serious. He'd never really kissed anyone.

"I'll show you."

Reaching out, he secured Sherlock's hands gently into his own, a slight electric tingle dancing on the surface of his skin. Once they had established that, he nodded, looking across from him with soft eyes.

"Now. Kissing isn't as hard as people think it is. You know that?"

"Really?"

"Yeah."

John nodded a few times, trying to ease Sherlock's obvious nerves by taking it slow. He rubbed his thumbs across the backs of his hands, working out any tension with unspoken words. The atmosphere in the room began to shift towards a more comfortable feel, warming the tiny space between the two individuals.

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he digested everything. He was sitting on the floor of a closet with John Watson, the boy he kind-of-sort-of-not-really-but-really-did-fancy, and they were about to kiss. There were roughly fifty seven other humans standing on the opposite side of the door, making enough racket to wake the dead, but somehow he had a hunch that whatever was happening out there wasn't nearly as important or interesting as what was occurring in here. Opening his eyes, he looked over at John, nodding again.

"Show me?"

John gave a small smile, nodding.

Here we go.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

A foot apart.

He hadn't brushed his teeth before the party. What if his breath stunk?

Eleven inches.

What if his shirt had some sort of chemical spill on it?

Ten inches.

Is this what people worried about before a kiss?

Nine inches.

There was so much that could go wrong.

Eight inches.

And he didn't even care.

Seven inches.

The gap was closing.

Six inches.

Sherlock was scared.

Five inches.

But oh, he was so excited.

Four inches.

Was he really ready for this?

Three inches.

Yes, he was.

Two inches.

This was it.

One inch.

Here we go.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly Hooper was extremely bored.

About fifteen minutes ago, some of the other party-goers had whisked John away into a closet at the other end of the room with none other than Sherlock Holmes, leaving herself and Greg Lestrade to ponder over what was going on. They were huddled on a small sofa towards the back of the party, whispering to each other excitedly, shooting an occasional curious glance in the direction of the closed door.

Why it was still closed was a mystery to them.

"They're been in there for fifteen minutes, Greg!"

"Molly, I'm aware! There's nothing we can do about it! If there _is _something going on in there, and I'd bet my fathers badge there is, then it isn't our place to interfere."

"Well, what're we going to do, then? Just sit here and wait for them to come out?"

"I'm not sure _what _we're going to do. But we can't barge in on them now."

Greg glanced around the party, scanning faces for any indication that other people were just as thrilled as they were to see how this peculiar mish-mash of people would turn out. He caught one person looking at the door for a split second, but whatever they were thinking, it had gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. Molly was practically jumping out of her seat with anticipation, legs bouncing eagerly as she awaited for the couple to emerge. Greg himself was twiddling his thumbs, eyes glued to the doorknob glinting from across the crowded space, waiting with baited breath to see it turn.

This may sound strange to an outsider, but they could assure you. This hunger for knowledge was just them being supportive.

John Watson was going through a rough time in his life. Through his entire childhood, it was drilled into his brain that being gay was a terrible thing to be. He was taught that it was spread like a disease, that anyone who _was _gay was sick and needed treatment, that he should avoid _those people _at all costs. However, once he turned fifteen, his perspective on the whole thing got flipped around, much to the horror of his father.

For the first time, John realized what being gay meant. It didn't mean being some filth-ridden specimen found on the filthiest streets; it was something much simpler. Being a gay person meant you liked the opposite sex. It wasn't until around his tenth year that he realized the word "homosexual" had never actually been defined for him. He was just expected to never be one. However, when he turned nineteen, just before he left for university, John officially came out of the closet, disappointing his father greatly. Their last parting words were ones of hatred and anger; John was almost positive he could never go back home again. He'd tramped off to Uni, horribly depressed, only to meet two of the kindest people on campus.

Molly Hooper was a nurturer. She cared about the broken and the wounded, with a knack of spotting those people out. Greg Lestrade was a good friend, and gave him emotional boosts whenever he could.

Which is why the two of them were so damn excited to talk to John.

Greg was just about to saunter over to the door himself when a boy distinctly under the influence of several substances jumped up on the table centered in the room to make an announcement.

"Hey! We, we forgot about Watson and, and, and Holmes!"

The crowd hooted, stamping their feet hard against the floor. A good eighty percent of the party was either drunk or high at this point, and the ones that weren't were sitting quietly on the sidelines. A good thirty people rose from their seats, chanting and screaming as they surged towards the closet door.

This could not end well.


	6. Chapter 6

Kissing was a nice sensation.

Sherlock noted this absently as John pressed their lips together gently, sending warm tremors down into his stomach. His heart rate was accelerated to an almost worrying pace, blood pounding in his ears. His hands were clammy, disgustingly damp with sweat. The room felt a million degrees hotter due to his elevated body temperature, trying to ignore his burning skin.

It was an incredible feeling.

John pulled away slowly, allowing their lips to remain in slight contact. He smiled at Sherlock kindly, reaching up to cup one of his cheeks, fingers like ice against the boiling skin beneath. Sherlock felt his lips spread into a grin, laughing breathily.

"See? You did excellent."

"You're joking."

"I'm not! Honestly! You're a really good kisser."

Sherlock looked down bashfully, biting the inside of his lip with a shy bat of his eyelashes. John smirked a little, leaning back a bit more to give them proper space to breathe. It wasn't until the high of the kiss had worn off that they realized closed world they had made for themselves in just fifteen short minutes was quickly disintegrating. There was a loud bang on the door, causing both boys to jump in surprise. Thunderous noises were flooding in, surrounding them in slight chaos. Sherlock looked at John fearfully, heart hammering in his chest once again. Although this time, it wasn't out of lust.

It was out of fear.

The door flung open, bathing the couple in a sharp, bright light. A putrid smell of weed, sex, and fifteen different kinds of liquor barreled its way into the once warm sanctuary. Ugly faces red with alcohol peered into the closet, jeering at them with everything from congratulatory remarks to vulgar requests. People were laughing and pointing at their flustered forms, as if they were in some kind of sick gay porn movie. Sherlock's face burned a bright red, and he shot off like a bullet, his small form weaving through the crowd of people blocking them off.

"Sherlock! Sherlock hold on!"

He wasn't listening.

He had to get out.

"Hey Sherlock! Come fuck Watson for us!"

Just keep going.

"Holmes! You get blown in there or what?"

Ignore them, they don't know anything.

"Watson and Holmes fucked you guys!"

It was high school all over again.

It wasn't until he was out of sight from the building that he allowed his footsteps to slow to a walking pace, tears streaming down his cheeks. Everything had been perfect. He'd kissed John Watson, and apparently wasn't bad at all. They were all alone, just the two of them in that wonderful, blissful little closet. He wasn't afraid. And then they had to come, to make fun of him, to taunt and tease him like he was some kind of animal in a cage. He hated them all.

Except John.

But John would hate him.

Sherlock couldn't stop crying.


End file.
